A Tail of Two Kitties
by littlegreenlake
Summary: the story of Ol'Scudder and Kitty Russell
1. Chapter 1

**A Tail of Two Kitties**

without beginning - without end

Gunsmoke fanfiction

littlegreenlake

 **^..^**

one

Seven year old, Betty Spreckel's daddy, C. Rudolph Spreckel, had been promoted to the position of President of the First National Bank of San Francisco. Betty, her mother, and two brothers, one older and the other younger were taking the train to the west coast, where they would join Mr. Spreckel, in the big fancy house, he had recently erected on the corner of Van Ness and Clay Streets. Mrs. Spreckel, a pretty woman in her middle thirties, along with her personal maid, Clarice, had their hands full; as they navigated the various train stops, and depots along the route. The Spreckel boys, although well mannered, were full of energy and curiosity. 'Thank heavens', the one lady had mentioned to the other, 'little Betty has that cat with her'. The patient beast, known as Fluffy, was half Siamese and wore the markings of the breed, with slanted sapphire blue eyes. His points, that being his ears, feet and tail, were a cider shade of orange and his nose, mouth and paw pads, were a delicate pink. Fluffy, fearing childish retribution, meekly submitted to being dressed in doll clothes, hugged and dragged about as though he were nothing more than a stuffed toy.

The entourage stayed overnight at the Dodge House. On the morning of Monday, March 26th, 1888, they were to leave on the 8:00 A.M. train to Albuquerque, New Mexico. Perhaps accidentally, the little door on his wicker carrying basket was left open, and Fluffy, the cat ran away. Little Betty was heartsick. "We have to look for him, Mama. Can't we ask that nice man with the badge to help us find him."

"I'm sorry, dear, I'm sure Marshal Dillon has more important duties than looking for Fluffy. We must leave without him. The train will depart soon. We can't miss it, for your father would be most upset, if we do not keep to his schedule."

"But who will take care of my kitten?" The little girl wailed.

Clarice, the maid, tried to soothe the child, "There, there, Miss Betty … some other little child will find Fluffy and make him their own and look after him, just the same as you did."

Freddy, the old brother said, "Good! Now, we can get a dog."

The younger brother, Teddy agreed, with a knowing nod of his head; holding up his dimpled little index and middle fingers, "Two dogs!"

Walter Iverson, the long time, train conductor, on the Atchinson, Topeka and Sante Fe, offered to put up a poster on the cat's behalf, but Mrs. Spreckel shook her head, declining. "Thank you, but it's just a cat after all, and really quite easily replaced, should we decide to do so."

With that, the family and Clarice boarded the train, leaving behind Fluffy the cat, last seen wearing a blue satin bow around his neck and a pair of hand-crocheted pink baby doll booties on his back feet.

 **^..^**

Julian Wendell was a juvenile delinquent. At 13, he was a gangly limbed, pimply skinned lad, with a nose too big for his face and beady eyes, often hidden behind unkept hair. He seemed to take pleasure in misdeeds, among them; petty theft, lying, cheating and most especially bullying. Every kid, his junior avoided confrontation with the boy at all costs. He was the cause for more bloodied noses in Dodge City, than a Saturday night brawl at the Long Branch.

His father, George, a rancher had died when the boy was six. His mother, Juanita, a former saloon gal, had taken over the running of the ranch and succeeded far better than the late Mr. Wendell could ever have hoped to. She was what would be referred to in later generations, as a career woman — to be sure, a noble calling. She had a head for numbers and a shrewd and cunning talent for making money. However, she lacked the maternal skills which might have made a difference in young Julian's temperament.

Julian had been expelled from the Dodge City Schools, and then had been kicked out of St John's Seminary for Young Gentlemen in Salina, Kansas, and the Missouri Military Academy in St Louis. Even private tutors, had thrown up their hands in defeat and declared he was incorrigible. For in their eyes, even the wealthy Juanita Wendell wasn't rich enough to pay the cost of dealing with the iniquitous child.

Needless to say, Julian had had a few run-ins with the authority figures in town. The General Store was off limits to him. Kindly, Mr. Lathrop, threatening he would press charges against the boy if he stepped foot inside his place of business again. Festus and Newly had tried to reason with the kid, and both had ended up with bruised shins from where Julien had kicked them with the pointed toe of his Mexican made, armadillo cowboy boots.

It was when he and his buddy, Dougie Sharlow, got caught sneaking into Miss Lou Lou's boudoir, that Dillon decreed it was time to lay down the long arm of the law. In this case, it was the hard hand of the law, on Julian's bony rump. In a public display of corporal punishment the child had been spanked on the Front Street boardwalk, to the delight of the local citizens.

That seemed to settle things down for a bit; although there was no doubt, from that point on, the kid carried a mighty grudge on his scrawny shoulders, for the big man and his badge.

 **^..^**

Ol' Scudder the jailhouse cat, turned up missing one day in the middle of April, 1888. The battle-scarred veteran, had served thirteen years active duty as the chief mouser of the United States Marshal's Office. Dillon had bought the cat, as a kitten, from the Ronniger kids for six pennies. Although, he had no intention of employing the animal, the little beast had quickly shown a prowess for eliminating mice and other vermin from the cells and office. Although Festus, who had named the kitten, had an open affection for Scudder, Dillon too, had formed an attachment to the feline. The old yellow cat had a fondness for curling up at the bottom of any warm and occupied bed. And more than once the Marshal had awakened to the loud contented rumble of the old cat's purr.

It was Festus, who first mentioned the elderly tom had disappeared. "Ain't seen nary a hair of Ol'Scudder in the last three or four days."

Dillon, tried to dismiss his worry. "He probably found himself a new lady friend."

This had appeased Hagen's concern, for Scudder had a history of vanishing for several days, only to reappear with what Festus called a "big ol'grin curlin' up the corners of his whiskers'.

Except, this time, Scudder didn't reappear and with each passing day it became more apparent, he was gone for good.

Hagen had looked for him everywhere, finally checking, what had always been one of his favorite summertime haunts — the pine needles under the old evergreen behind Ma Smalley's Boarding House. Festus had found the stiff, decaying carcass several days later. All appearances were the old cat had just curled up and died in his sleep.

With Ma's permission, Festus had buried the cat in the spot where he'd died. Hagen had invited Matt, Doc and Newly to come and say a few words of remembrance, but they'd each declined the request. So, the only ones to witness Ol' Scudder's final interment were Mrs. Smalley and the Deputy. Ma, stood out in the cool spring air, holding Hagen's hat as Festus dug the hole. The remains were wrapped in a freshly laundered flour sack and gently placed in the ground, to be covered by loose packed soil. Ma lugged over a pretty quartz flecked rock, she'd always fancied, and solemnly placed it over the grave to serve as a marker. Afterward, Ma invited Festus to come inside the Boarding House to partake in tea and cookies. Dottie and Harry Bender joined them, and together, they shared stories of cats they'd known. "I just wish I coulda been there fer him, when he drew his last breath." Festus lamented.

Harry took a long sip of Ma's tea, and then gave Festus a pat on the hand, "You been around animals long enough to know, they like to be off on their own when their time comes."

Dottie concurred, "It sounds like he passed, the way we'd all like to. In a place we know, love and feel safe."

Festus took another sip of the herb tea and then nibbled on his fourth cookie. A wave of peace and understanding washed over him, it was as if the mysteries of the universe had been revealed. He smiled then and offered one final eulogy for his departed friend. "Scudder, he sure was a good ol'cat."

No mouser could have asked for more.


	2. Chapter 2

two

^..^

He had a letter to write and one to read. He wasn't sure which to do first. The novelty of receiving a letter from Kitty still so new, that he felt downright giddy at the prospect. He'd received four of them by now, not including the letter he wasn't supposed to see. Each note had been less impersonal than the one before; her words evoking a warmer sentiment that made him feel closer to her. She seemed to have picked up his tone, rehashing the day, relaying a bright spot, or something that had touched her heart. For just that brief moment, with letter in hand, he was once again sitting at the back table of the Long Branch just before closing time.

The clock on the wall tick-tocked, with comforting rhythm. It's hands, showing just past 11:00 PM. A gentle rain pattered against the new tin roof in a soothing beat. The cells were empty. The town was quiet. Even, the prairie winds had ceased their earlier roar. Alone in the office, he arranged his writing paper and pen on the desk. He got out the bottle of brandy and the chipped blue willow cup, and set this on his desk too. The only thing left, was to put Ol' Scudder out. The cat liked to make his final rounds just before bedtime. Dillon walked to the door, and with hand on the knob, remembered. Scudder was dead. It hit him hard, like a forceful poke in the gut. That sudden realization, he'd never have to deal with cat hair, paw prints, howls and yowls to be let out and in. There would be no more dead mice presented with his morning breakfast, nor battle scars to be cleaned and salved. The sandbox in the rear cell could be tossed in the garbage, it was no longer needed.

He went back to sit at his desk, poured a good portion of brandy in his cup and took a drink. He'd never admit the fact to Festus, Newly or even Doc, but he missed the cat.

From behind the old dresser, on the far side of the room, he heard the chit chit chit of mice. Those low-down varmints knew Scudder was dead and were already moving in. He felt an unexpected kinship to the dead animal — Dodge City would be the same, if something should happen to him.

Dillon held the dainty cup in his hand, running a finger over a chip in the rim. He took a closer look at the pattern, it was from a favorite china set of Kitty's. The blue transferware represented some sort of legend of star crossed lovers. He thought hard to remember what Kitty had told him, although why it seemed important to do so, he wasn't sure. Then he recalled, an Oriental princess had fallen in love with a farm boy, neither could give the other up, they were put to death, only to return to life as doves, forever united. He shook his head at the nonsense of the tale. Then, dipped his pen in the inkwell and began to write.

Dear Kitty,

Festus found Ol' Scudder today. He was dead under Ma's evergreen tree. I'm sitting here tonight thinking I should feel lucky not to have to deal with that mangy beast any more, but instead I find, I miss the rumble of his purr, his head butting against my hand, looking for a scratch and maybe a kind word. Strange, how the loss of something or someone you've taken for granted, can leave a hole you never knew existed.

Guess I'll have Festus pick up a couple mousetraps at Mr. Lathrop's tomorrow.

It's still raining and the town is quiet.

Matt

By the following evening, brand spanking new mousetraps had been baited and set, at various locations in the jailhouse. Throughout that night, the sharp snap of the traps, as they executed the rodent squatters kept Dillon from falling asleep. I must be getting soft, he taunted himself. But, somehow the idea of the cat making sport out of the mice seemed easier to stomach than the cruel finality of the merciless traps.

^..^

The town was muddy after two days of April rain. Wagons plodded through the sodden streets. Ladies hiked up their skirts lest they end up hemmed in caked dirt. Yet, while, making his morning rounds, Dillon was smiling to himself. He recalled, a day much like this when Kitty Russell had first come to town. He'd noticed her at Delmonicos, soggy and mud-splattered, the damp ostrich feather on her bonnet hanging low on her face. She blew it up, out of her way, as she gave the waiter her order. Watching her, he'd been reluctant to leave. When, at last he did, he'd passed by her table and gave her a tip of his hat. She'd winked back and said, "How are you doing, Cowboy?" She was the prettiest woman he'd ever seen. His smile turned to a wince. It never got any easier, this loneliness he felt without her.

He was walking past the feed store when he saw Julien Wendell, Dougie Sharlow and a couple other lads he didn't recognize, poking a broom stick at something under the boardwalk.

The boys were making great sport out of the action, whooping and laughing and Dillon figured they they were up to no good. He stood across the street watching as Julien lay down on his belly and stretched his long thin arm under the boards.

He reached in as far as his shoulder and then pulled it out in a hurry. "The fucking thing scratched me." Julien was good and angry now, and not to be denied. He stuck his arm in again, and then pulled out some form of filthy creature. He swung it around for the other boys to see, and then scrambling to his feet held it high. "I'll learn you to mess with me." He declared. "Give me a match Dougie."

Dougie Sharlow retrieved a match from his pants pocket, "yeah, set fire to it's tail, that'd be a good one, bet you'd hear a real howl, then!"

Julien was all set to do the evil deed, when Dillon marched across the street. He grabbed the kid around his waist, lifting him off his feet, while deftly rescuing the injured cat, cradling it, in his other hand. He barked orders in his sternest voice, "You boys get off the street. If I see any of you around town in the next week, I'll lock you up and throw away the key."

Dougie held his ground momentarily, "What are you gonna do with Julien?"

"I'm arresting him."

"What fer?"

"Cruelty to an animal."

"That ain't no crime. It's just some stupid half dead cat."

"I say it's a crime, worth two weeks in jail, and if you don't get out of here, Sharlow, I'll lock you up too."

It was some relief to Dillon, that young Dougie, hightailed it out of there, because, with Julien under one arm and the cat under the other he was limited in options. Both boy and beast were fighting for their freedom, however neither was a match for a cowtown marshal.

To the amusement of local citizenry, he carried the pair of them back to the jail, put the cat on his desk and tossed Julien in a cell. "Get Doc." He ordered Festus, before the deputy could ask questions.

By this time, the fight had gone out of the little animal. The cat had nothing left, it lay on it's side not moving from the spot Dillon had placed it. It's fur was matted and so filthy it would be difficult to tell the coloring. It was alarmingly thin. It's two front paws were bloodied and a toenail hung at an odd angle on it's back foot. It's eyes were half-closed and unfocused. It's mouth open, with just the tip of a small pink tongue showing. Around the neck of the pathetic little creature, was the remnant of a blue ribbon.


	3. Chapter 3

3

Julien, standing in the front corner, of the back cell could see what was happening in the office. Festus Hagen, followed by Doc Adams had just rushed in the door. The old man's suit was rumpled, tie askew, and the hair on his hatless head was sticking up at odd angles and in obvious need of a comb and bay rum hair tonic. It was apparent he'd been roused from a deep sleep and was trying to get his professional bearings.

"You just wake up?" Dillon asked.

"I didn't get to bed until after 5:00 AM. I spent yet another successful night at the Roniger's. Mother and baby doing just fine, I might add." He looked Dillon up and down, with a medical eye. "You don't look sick. Who's my patient?"

Matt stepped aside, allowing Doc a view of the sorry looking animal laid out on his desk. "That's a cat!" Adams stated the obvious, with more than a fair amount of disdain. "In case you're not aware, I am a physician, I doctor people, not four-legged, flea bitten felines. You should have had Festus fetch Jim Nitschke. He's the vet."

"He'd a charged me." Dillon deadpanned.

"Well, that's true enough." The old man bent to take a closer look at his patient, feeling for heartbeat, gently moving limbs this way and that, lifting head and palpating neck and spine, the little beast stirred enough to make a soundless mew.

"Is he going to make it?" Matt asked.

"I don't know, he's pretty bad off." Doc took a scissors out from his bag and cut off the blue ribbon, still tied on the cat's neck. He studied it before setting it on the desk. "He must belong to somebody."

Festus reached over and picked up the tattered slip of satin. "I know who this cat is." The hillman declared.

Both Doc and Matt turned to look at him, as he continued. "That there's Fluffy."

"Fluffy!" They exclaimed simultaneously.

"Yeah, 'bout a month ago, this here high-falutin family was apassing through Dodge on the train. The little girl lost her cat. Walt Iverson, doncha know, the train conductor, was a'tellin' me all 'bout it. He dun offered to send it to them if the varmint, Fluffy, he called it, showed up, but, she said, don't bother, said she'd git the little girl another cat, said cats was easy to replace."

Doc nodded, "Most people see cats as expendable."

Festus looked at the old man through one eye, "What are you talkin' 'bout? You can't buy nothin' with a cat, why, you can't hardly give 'em away."

"EX-pendable." Doc re-articulated, "it means of little value, easy to replace." Turning to Matt, he asked, "Do you want me to put him down?"

"Yeah, no sense makin' him suffer." He reached out a forefinger to lightly run it over the matted fur of the little beast, and felt the faint rumble of a purr. "There's no chance he can make it? Is there?"

"Maybe, but it would take someone with the time to play nursemaid to him. The one thing I know for sure is, he's badly dehydrated. There's no way to diagnose how severe his internal injuries are."

Matt looked up and saw Julien hanging on the jail bars in the back cell. "What supplies would we need, if we were going to try to save it?"

"Well, let me see … an eyedropper, a box to keep him in, water bottle, towels or cut up blankets, suave for his wounds, I can leave the medicine. The most important thing, will be someone to keep a constant vigil. He's going to need a dropper full of water every few minutes. No more than that, to begin with."

Still looking at Julien, Dillon's eyes narrowed. He raised his voice, "You think you can keep this cat alive, instead of trying to kill it?"

The boy's face was pure mean and attitude, "I'm not looking after no fuckin' cat. You can't make me."

Dillon touched the creature again, this time to gently rub the top of his head, between his once pretty pink ears, "If you can keep him alive, I might consider reducing your sentence."

"Humpf!" Scoffed the boy. "My mother will have something to say about all of this."

^..^

Dougie Sharlow had found Mrs. Wendell at the back counter of the General Store. He'd run all over town looking for her and was out of breath and panting, "You best come quick! The Marshal dun locked up Julien. Carried him off like a sack of manure. Put him in jail, said he was gonna throw away the key."

"What for?" She questioned.

"We was just playing with a stray cat, that's all it was, just playing with a stray cat. That lawman's gone plumb loco for cats."

^..^

His mother stood nearly six feet tall in bare feet, wearing her fancy ebony and turquoise painted snakeskin cowboy boots, she was well over that limit. Juanita Wendell was splendidly built, Junoesque in proportions. She wore black; pants, shirt, vest, neckerchief and stetson. Her belt was black, hand tooled and trimmed with silver. She was striking and intimidating. A handsome woman, with a face only slightly marred by thirty five years of hard living. Her burnished raven hair was sleeked back in a single thick braid that trailed down her spine. Her dark eyes were sharp and defined by well shaped brows, her nose straight, almost patrician. That which gave softness to her features was her mouth, full and soft and ruby lipped.

She appeared in the doorway of the jailhouse now, casting a long shadow that caused every man present to look up. From his cell in the back, Julien called out in a high pitched whine, "Ma má, Ma máaa … look what he has done to me!"

"Ma má?" The surprised trio of Festus, Doc and Matt, chorused in refrain.


	4. Chapter 4

4

"Julie!" the woman cried, rushing forward, pushing Festus out of the way, as she went through the office, to the jail cells beyond.

"Oh Ma má." The boy wailed. "Get me out of here! Get me out, now. I don't like it in here."

She stood in front of his cell, not reaching out to touch him, but keeping a distance between them. Her tone, filled with spurious concern, "What happened, Julie, tell Ma má."

The voice he used for his mother, was in direct contrast to that with which he spoke to anyone else, for it was high-pitched and whiney and bore the mark of over-educated governesses and tutors from fancy eastern boarding schools, "I rescued the poor kitten. He was cold, homeless and injured, furthermore, he was trapped under the boardwalk. I pulled him to safety. Marshal Dillon, always thinking the worst of people, supposed I was out to hurt the animal. He would not listen to my explanation."

"Were you planning on using that match to warm him up?" Dillon questioned derisively.

Jutting forth his chin, Julien replied. "I don't know what you are talking about."

Matt ignored the kid. "Mrs. Wendell, may I speak with you privately?"

"Don't go, Ma má. Please, don't go. His only motive is to tell you more lies." Julien pled. Reaching his arm through the cell, he was able to touch her with his fingertips.

She stepped back as contact was made. She stared at him for a beat, eyes narrow and penetrating, perhaps trying to see what was behind the facade, he presented to her. She gave an almost indiscernible shake of her head before readjusting her black stetson, and stiffening her spine. She turned her back to the boy and left the room.

In the office, Juanita nodded to Dillon and he opened the front door. With his hand, he gestured for her to go through it. Without hesitation, she did.

Once outside, he asked. "The Long Branch or Bull's?"

"The Long Branch." She answered.

They said nothing as they made the brief walk to the saloon. He pushed open the batwing doors and ushered her in ahead of him.

The saloon was quiet at this time of day. Only the new owner, Miss Hannah, was on hand to wait on customers. If she was surprised to see the Marshal and Juanita Wendell enter her establishment, she hid it well.

"Good morning Marshal, Mrs. Wendell, what can I get for you?"

"Just coffee, please Hannah." Dillon answered.

Juanita spoke, "Whiskey for me, leave the bottle. Are you sure you don't want something stronger than coffee, Dillon?"

He almost laughed at her brashness and they both relaxed a little. She scanned the interior of the saloon. "This is where it all started for me." She mused.

Hannah set a couple shot classes on the table along with a bottle of Gold Barrel. "Still want the coffee, Matt?" Hannah asked.

He shook his head. "This will be fine, thank you."

"I'll be in the office if you need me." The saloon owner replied.

"Old habits die hard, or once a saloon gal always a saloon gal." Juanita muttered, as she poured the whiskey and handed a glass to Matt, who took a sip. She took her own glass, swallowed the contents in a single gulp and then poured another for herself. She swirled the golden liquor, watching it form a miniature whirlpool.

"About the boy…" Matt began.

Juanita didn't want to talk about Julien. She was tangled in a web of her own memories and would not be set free, until she was good and ready. "I had run away from my uncle's home in Texas, although it wasn't much of a home. I was abused — any which way they could, despite the fact they were Sunday Christians, if you know what I mean." She gave a small snort of a laugh. "I recall, I was this bean pole of a gal, my clothes were rags and I was down to my last dime. I found my way to Dodge City, and low and behold, the high and mighty Miss Kitty Russell took me in. Guess she saw something beneath all that grime and filth I carried with me. She gave me food and a room and found me a low cut sequined gown, that was so short it came up to my knees. She curled and pinned my hair, then stuck a red feather plume in it. That was a sight! She squirted me with some of that sweet smelling toilet water of hers. After she'd rosied up my lips and cheeks with rouge, she pushed me out on the saloon floor. She said, 'the future is yours Juanita, it is what you make of it. This is a tough way to make a living. But, if you work hard, and keep your wits about you, great things can happen."

Juanita took another drink of the whisky. This time, it was only a small taste to savor. She smiled a little ruefully at Matt. "I said to her, 'Which gent out there, has the biggest spread?' Kitty threw back her head and laughed, then she put her arm around my waist and proceeded to give me a brief rundown on every rancher, cowpoke and drifter in the saloon. Then this man, and I do mean man …" Juanita emphasized the gender, with the timbre of her voice, "pushed his way in through those swinging doors, only man from here to Texas, I could look up to, and I said, 'what about him.' She said, 'don't you bother your pretty head about him, Miss Juanita. He's mine.'"

There was a deck of cards sitting on the table. Juanita picked them up and began to shuffle them. She'd lost none of the flair and dexterity of a professional dealer. "I was a pretty good poker player in those days. I even beat Kitty a time or two."

"That was years ago, Juanita."

"It was, but it seems like yesterday." She paused for a moment trapping her tongue between her white teeth in a suggestive manner. Raising her shapely eyebrows she continued. "No matter what Miss Kitty said; I always knew there was more range bull in you than she cared to admit, Dillon."

A look came over his face, that could only be described as pained. His voice was very quiet. "It was one night."

She raised an elbow to the table and resting her chin in hand, Juanita looked at him with a mocking simper. "Sometimes, all it takes is one night, some men are just that good."

Like the bullet from an ambusher's rifle, her meaning hit him with a sudden hard impact. In a rush, the dates and events of that time, flashed through his mind. Still, he denied the facts with a shake of his head.

The gambler's smile was evident by a slight lift to her lips. The action elevated her cheekbones. "That's right Dillon, Julien is your son."

He swallowed hard picturing the boy, long and gangly, with a nose too big for his face, so like his own at a similar age.

Juanita fanned the cards on the table and let them lie.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He demanded.

"Oh, there were a couple reasons."

"What?"

"Well for one thing, you were never going to be a rich man. George owned the Purple Sage Ranch, he had the promise of being a very rich man one day … of course it took me, to make a success out of the place. George came up short in that area … among others."

"… and the other reason?"

"You had that badge of yours, not even Kitty could tear you away from it. In the long run, I knew I'd get what I wanted with George, he was always willing to do my bidding. He proved to be a good father, even though he knew the child wasn't his. Julien looked up to him. What ever other mistakes I've made in raising him, I'm not going to take away his memory of George." Her face turned hard. "He's not to know the truth, Dillon."

"Truth Juanita? I don't know if you're telling the truth or just bluffing." He ran his tongue over his lips. "I do know this, if something doesn't change soon, that boy of yours is going to end up on the wrong end of a rope, before he's out of his teens."

Juanita rose to her feet abruptly, turning her back to him, she walked to the doors and stood there surveying the street. Dillon got up too, and moved close behind her. She felt the heat which radiated from his large body and remembered what it was like to be held in his arms. She drew in her breath with a hiss. "Do what you think best with him. I won't stand in your way." Pushing the doors open, she moved into the bright sunlight, but turned back to say, "Things could have been a lot different for Julien, had I played the high card, when I had it."


	5. Chapter 5

5

Back at the Marshal's office, Festus was kept busy assembling the items Doc thought necessary to care for the injured cat. Fluffy was now settled in a box lined with old rags. He'd had a couple droppers-full of water and appeared to be in a deep exhausted sleep. While Julien watched from his jail cell, Festus petted the little animal's head and talked in a soothing voice. "It's alright now, Fluffy, don't you go frettin' none, you're safe, ain't no one agonna pester you, while Ol' Festus is here. I guarantee it."

Doc had taken a seat at the table and was drinking a cup of stale coffee; still trying to recover from his late night at the Roniger's. He chuckled a little hearing Festus use the cat's name.

"You're gonna have to come up with a better name than that, Festus. In respect to the legacy of Ol' Scudder, you can't have a jailhouse cat named Fluffy."

Julien felt a wave of displeasure. Old coots, the pair of them, fussing over a dumb cat like it was the most important thing in the world. He shuffled his feet around and shifted his position and that's when he glanced at his arm and noticed a faint bloody line from wrist to elbow. The cat had scratched him, it wasn't very deep and it certainly didn't hurt much. But, the boy decided to use the injury to draw a little attention to himself and maybe, then they'd see the cat got just what he deserved.

"Hey old man." He called to Doc. "What about me? Guess what they say is true, you're too fucking old to be anything but an animal doctor."

Adams looked in the direction of the boy, "What's wrong with you? Certainly can't be anything to do with that mouth of yours. If you keep using that kind of language around me, I'll take you over my knee and teach you a lesson or two, or maybe wash out that dirty mouth with a cake of Miss Pry's homemade soap."

Julien scowled, "That ffffuc… that cat scratched me. I'm bleeding in here, but do you care?"

Doc got to his feet and made his arthritic way to the back cell, followed closely by Deputy Hagen.

Festus peered over Doc's shoulder looking at the arm the young prisoner extended through the cell bars. "Pfft, why, that ain't nothing but an itty bitty ol' scratch."

Doc ran his hand over his moustache, "The boy's right, a cat scratch isn't anything to mess with. They can get infected. Why I've seen men die from an untended wound like this."

Julien's eyes grew wide. "Really?" He asked.

"Get my bag Festus, let's get ol' Scratch fixed up here."

Julien pulled his arm back, "My name is Julien, Old Man … "

"And my name is Doctor Adams."

Julien spat on the floor, "Fucking old man …"

Adams chuckled, and countered, using the new nickname like a taunt, "Scratch." He opened his doctor bag, which was being held by Festus, rummaged through the bottles and potions and picked up a small brown vial. He smiled as he studied product. "This should do just fine." He opened the bottle and ordered the lad to, "Put your arm out, so I can save your life, Scratch."

The boy was wary. To his great surprise, this old man was not easily bullied. Hesitantly, he held his arm out.

Adams trickled a little of the liquid over the wound and Julian pulled his arm back with a girly shriek. He quickly donned his tough guy facade, "FUCK!" Tears welled in his eyes. "You trying to murder me ol' man?"

Doc's eyes twinkled, but he kept his smile to himself, "Let this be a lesson to you, Scratch. Having your life saved, generally involves some pain. Here's something else for you to chew on; just because I'm old makes me no less a man, and spouting cuss words just to show off, proves you're not ready to be a man. "

^..^

From behind the Long Branch's batwings, Dillon watched Juanita Wendell walk away. His brain in shock, his mind a jumble of emotions too tangled to straighten without the luxury of time to mull it over. He left the saloon, doors swinging in his wake and began walking aimlessly down the street, he had no destination in mind, it was just one foot in front of the other. Had an ambusher been hiding in wait, to do in the Marshal, he would have found an easy target. It was with a sense of bewilderment that he found himself climbing to the top of Boot Hill. In Dodge City's hay day, this landmark had been the final resting place for desperado, gunslinger, nameless cowpoke and penniless drifter. In this forgotten wasteland, eroded by wind, weather and time, few markers bore more than a faint faded name on a chinked and worn, wooden plank. Yet, scanning the graveyard Matt Dillon was able to identify face and instance of those he'd helped put in the ground. There were a great plenty of them, so large the number he knew his own soul would never rest in peace. That was the price of the badge. That, and so much more.

A son. It was this idea that grabbed him harshly and shook him from the past to this present day. Julien was his boy; how could that be? Yet, there was enough evidence to substantiate Juanita's claim. The time frame fit. Julien's physical features were a strong resemblance to the boy Dillon had been. The rebellion too was a mark of his own youthful character. How could he not have noticed it before?

An ancient oak, long dead, stood stark against the vista. Broken limbs the old-timers referred to as widow makers, creaked and swayed with the wind. Silhouetted against the sky, the lawman leaned against the peeling bark of the trunk. Memories pulled and had their way with him, again. Fourteen years; a blink of an eye, yet a lifetime ago. He recalled that dismal dank day, standing in the rain, seeing Kitty off on the stage. She'd purchased a one way ticket to St. Louis, vowing never to return. The argument which preceded her leaving, was no different from the others which defined their relationship and at the core, the very heart of each dispute, was the badge. Offering a hand as she boarded the stage, he'd promised they'd 'talk things out when she came back.' She'd responded with a voice as unforgiving as the March winds, "What difference would that make; you'd still be a man married to a tin star."

Weeks turned into a month and then two, and she hadn't returned. He'd received no letters, no communication of any kind, although Doc and Sam had. The badge, unyielding Sovereign that it was, demanded his allegiance. The herds were in. Money was flowing; drawing with it gamblers, petty thieves and worse. Keeping a lid on the Gomorrah of the Plains commanded his time. Going after her was not an option, not, if he kept true to the oath and pledge he'd made to the badge.

In Kitty's absence, there had been women more than willing; offering to ease his self-imposed celibacy. He'd politely declined their solicitude. For in his heart, he was steadfast to Kitty. Juanita had played to his loyalty, paying special attention to him when he came in the saloon, but never suggesting her attention required more than platonic friendship in return. He, as Kitty often told him, was guileless to the wiles of certain women, and did not recognize Juanita's efforts to gain his confidence as such. So devious her plan; so sure her manipulation; that ultimately, it was he who unwittingly made the overture to seek out the privacy of her room. There, in the soft glow of kerosine, shining dancing shadows against the cheap polished cotton of her bedding, plied by whiskey and woe, Matt Dillon made love to her. That, the woman in his arms was not the woman in his heart made him a traitor to them both.


	6. Chapter 6

6

Years of swabbing mucked up floors, had caused the bottom of the oak planked door between office and jail cells to rot and warp. The make-do solution had been to annually sand that area of the door destroyed by water damage. The result all these years later, was a one inch gap between floor and door. It proved no barrier to the sounds filtering in from the main room.

Julien, slumped on his cot with chin in hands and elbows on knees — his youthful face set in an ageless scowl, as he listened to a parade of visitors make their way in and out of the Jailhouse.

He heard the hillbilly twang of the deputy crooning sweet notes to the ailing cat. "I'm gonna find me a prairie rat, and fry him up fer supper, n save for dessert his long scrawny tail, cuz I love me some rat tails, they taste plum larrapin, I love me some rat tails, they taste like mo-lasses to me, they're crunchy and they're munchy and tough as hard rock taffy …"

Julien noted as well, the frequency of house calls made by the grumpy old coot of a doctor to check on the status of his animal patient. Each trip producing another scientifically proven miracle of feline-applied medicine from the stack of Modern Physician Periodicals cluttering the shelves of the old man's bookcase. Julien knew for a fact they were there, for he'd stared at the pile as Doc Adams plucked rock salt from his butt end a year or so back.

Even old Ma Smalley made an appearance, Julien recognized her high-pitched sing-song drawl. "I brought you a pint jar of my hemp tonic — never fails to cure my Puss when she's under the weather — why, it even worked on my philodendron when it was dropping leaves last fall."

Notably missing were his mother and the Marshal —the absence of both was worrisome. In the past, his antics never failed to draw his mother's attention and tough man Dillon's reprisal for his transgressions had amounted to nothing more than a few stern words.

The enforced solitude, so alien to his life allowed free rein to his scattered thoughts and a slew of scenarios encroached on his adolescent mind.

When they first locked him up, he'd feared they were going to stick him with playing nurse maid to the damn cat. Before they'd had a chance, he had loudly vowed, if they did he'd wring its fucking neck and enjoy the process. That's when the door was slammed shut, and he was left deserted and alone.

The alone part, was beginning to fray his bluster. Julien stood, stretched and wandered to the window, placing his hands on the bars, he gave them a good shake. A whiff of fresh cold air seeped in through the crack between glass and wood trim, but the bars remained immobile. The chill and hint of clean air felt good for the cell was certainly no flower garden. Dank mustiness had consumed the stagnant air and the piss pot in the corner was ripening.

There was an uncomfortable ache in his lower abdomen. His stomach cramped from hunger. To ease the discomfort he stretched again, pulling himself up to his full height. He noted then, with some pride he was taller than most men full grown and he was still growing. A loud growl percolated from the pit of his belly bringing him back to his current dilemma. He needed food! All this fuss over that half-dead cat, what about him? A dark thought hit — were they going to leave him to starve to death?

The sky blackened and the lamplighter made his rounds. The player-piano at the Long Branch was cranking out a medley of tinny chords — even to his tone-deaf ears, they sounded off tune and grated against his increasingly frangible nerves.

Sullen and dejected — his heart took to racing as panic replaced his hunger pangs. Were they just going to let him rot, until the stench of his dead carcass forced them to drag his putrid remains from this stinking prison cell? The more he thought about it the more indignant he became. Panic turned to anger. Even a prisoner had rights. Ray Sharlow, Dougie's outlaw uncle had told him that. Julien stomped his foot in outrage and kicked the cot in frustration. Just wait until he told mother. She'd fix that lawman! But then, to his shame, the corners of his eyes pooled. Where was Ma Ma'? Like everyone else, had she deserted him too?

In the midst of this silent lament, Julien heard the door to the jail house open and shut again. He knew it was Matt Dillon before the man spoke a word or the deputy hailed his arrival. Why was that? Julien pondered, certainly a few steps weren't enough to distinguish one man from another. Yet the boy knew, and was jolted to attention by the knowledge.

^..^

"Where you been off too?" Hagen asked.

Matt perched his hat on a hook, and released the buckle of his gun belt. "Had business to take care of. How's the cat?"

"Doing some better."

"'n the boy?"

"Ain't paid him no never mind since he threatened to ring ol' Fluffy's neck."

"Did you feed him?"

"The boy or the cat? Ol'Fluffy's been tended to, but like I said Matthew, I ain't paid the boy no never mind."

"Why don't you head on over to Delmonico's — get some supper and bring a tray back for our guest."

"What about Fluffy, here?"

"I'll keep an eye on the cat and the boy."

Hagen nodded, cooed something to the cat, grabbed his scruffy hat and meticulously tended gun, "Be back directly …"

Alone in his office, Matt walked over to the desk. He eyed the apple crate with the cat, looking like a bag of bones in ill-fitting fur. Raising a forefinger he stroked its bony head. An indiscernible rumble rolled from deep in Fluffy's throat. Was it a purr or the death rattle, Dillon didn't know.

As he studied the cat, he had a strong sense that the boy on the other side of the door was aware and listening. The notion that he had to make a connection with Julien was profound. He had spent the day deliberating the boy's fate and then stopped by the Dodge House to discuss the matter with Judge Brooker — in town on his monthly circuit. He had come to the conclusion; it didn't matter much if Julien was his blood or not. It was his duty to the badge that demanded firm action.

He offered a dropper of water to Fluffy and then poured himself a cup of coffee. He took a quick drink before heading to the jail room.

Julien, anticipating the Marshal's appearance had turned and made a quick belly flop to the cot. It creaked with threatened collapse upon impact. The boy lay motionless, while the grimy mattress bounced up and down on the rusty metal frame.

"Get up."

Julien didn't move.

"Get up, now!"

All at once the kid's attitude changed, his heart lightened a bit. Obviously, Dillion had talked with Ma ma' and she'd fixed things for him to get out. A cocky smirk lifted his features. He rolled over and stood up, the movement graceful and telling. "I figured once you talked with my mother, you'd see things differently."

"Your Ma said to do as I see fit. She's tired of paying your way out of all the trouble you get into."

"That ain't so."

"I had a little talk with Judge Brooker … he's been aware of the petty theft and total disregard for the law of common civility on your part for some time; when he heard what happened with the cat, he said to send you to the Industrial School for Boys up in Topeka."

"What the hell is that?"

"It's a reform school … a prison for boys. Consider yourself lucky he didn't suggest Lansing."

"Wh-what's Lansing?" Bravado was getting hard to come by.

He had Julien's full attention now and the lawman was kind of enjoying the fear in the kid's eyes. "Kansas State Penitentiary."

Julien took a step back, "I ain't goin' to no prison!"

"You have no say in the matter. Judge Brooker's leaving it up to me."

"Look …" Julien ran a tongue over his dry lips, his heart was beating fast again. "I'll do whatever you want me to do. I'll even tend to that fuck … that cat if you want me to."

The Marshal's expression was without chink. Julien gulped. "I mean it, Marshal Dillon, I'll do whatever you say."

"Let me give the matter some thought, tonight. I'll let you know in the morning." Without another word, the big man left the jail room, shutting the oak planked door firmly behind him.

^..^

Matt made his final rounds, sent Festus off for the night, then checked on the boy. Julien lay on his back with eyes closed. His hands were folded across his chest like he'd been laid out for viewing in Percy Crump's funeral parlor. Every few seconds he discharged what appeared to be feigned and exaggerated snores. It was left for Dillon to ponder which was worse, the fake snoring or the foul cursing. Either way, it was hard to find something good coming from Julien's lips. He resisted the sudden urge to stuff a sock in the kid's mouth and returned to his office.

As was his routine, he took a final look at the street outside before pulling the window shades to insure privacy. With all menial tasks of his day accomplished, there was nothing left to do, but that which he'd been dreading to do all day. He sat at his desk, placed stationary, pen and inkwell in front of him. He stared hard at the blank paper; then looked off into space, his eyes finally resting upon a large black spider dangling from the ceiling rafter. And, throughout this process, starting his opening sentence over and again in his mind, hoping for some magic power that could take away the hurt of what he had to say.

Kitty,

The Wendell kid got in trouble today. He and the Sharlow boy were abusing a cat. I'd had enough of it. I hauled him in and threw him in jail — all the while he was hollering cuss words and threats. Of course, Juanita came over, cash in hand ready to buy his way out, like she did with Mr. Jonas, Henry at Delmonico's, and a dozen other victims of his shenanigans.

Juanita wanted to talk so we went over to the Long Branch and she started reminiscing about when she first came to town. She reminded me of something that happened between her and I.

She said I'm Julien's father. Juanita's got a card-sharps heart and would bluff a dying man out of his last breath, if she found some gain to the act. Since I'm being honest, she's a better gambler than you ever were. But, the fact remains, what she said could be true.

I guess it boils down to this, either Julien nurses the cat back to health or he goes to the reform school in Topeka.

Here I sit. I've got a half dead cat in an old apple crate taking up space in front of me. There's a kid that might be my son stretched out on a cot in my jail cell. And the one woman, I've ever given a damn about, a thousand miles away.

Matt

He stared at the words he'd written with disgust. He felt like the worst kind of coward. With all she was going through Kitty deserved more than a confession of infidelity to ease his soul. He stood up and poured himself another cup of coffee, the fire was almost out and the brew was tepid at best. He turned back to his desk and saw the black spider had lowered itself to the letter, without second thought he grabbed the monthly copy of the Ford County Globe and swatted the creature with more force than it deserved. He heard an unmistakable crunch and knew before he lifted the paper the carnage would be complete.

He picked up both letter and paper with the remains of the spider and threw them into the stove. A last dying ember in the pot belly crackled to life — it took only a heartbeat for them to catch fire and burn.


End file.
